“No, no.. it’s too cold!” I shout, in just to my ankles in the clear pond.
But I walk deeper, still, to mid-thigh, and let my body adapt to the shock of water.
It never works to enter into these affairs slowly, I know. I yearn for this, for water, and so it is not long before I am underwater, head immersed suddenly despite the chilling breathlessness in the gesture. The discomfort lasts only a moment, but you are already way beyond me, motioning to me to come out past the ropes, deeper. I look back at the land and suddenly fear that my legs will cramp, that I will drown, that something dreadful will happen here–and I wonder why–I know that in another day or two I will find my skin and return, alone if everyone else finds me too foolish to follow.
When you are not here, I dive right in. I defy the lifeguards, lure others out farther, farther out. But when I see you, I feel suddenly shy, want you to lead me even farther into the murky depths, into danger–back home.
And so we are here, once more.
I say “we”, and yet, in this moment, I am alone here, at least physically. I cannot erase you from my mind as I wait, blindfolded, for you to come back to the bedroom and make me pull at the ropes you have secured around my ankles and wrists. I have known this feeling before, the terror first at relinquishing control, then the soaring freedom, intense and remarkable even in these moments that seem never to end. You have left me here, my shoulders and back covered in the warm blankets, my legs spread to expose all my secrets, my desire. You have filled me, painted me, left me alone to let the sensations wander into my body and stay, heat intensified as my inability to shift, to move becomes uncomfortable, as I think to touch myself and then cannot, as I wait and try to relax.
The door opens. I realize how deep I have gone into myself, how safe I have felt in this permission I grant myself now to abandon the world beyond the bed. You must see the wet spot beneath me, see my glistening skin as you walk around me. Pull me deeper, love, I wish, as you trace a fingertip up the length of my body, stop to twist my nipple, first gently, then harder, harder, until I groan, and arch my back, deeper, deeper into the bed, into my own lust.
Soft caresses tickle my arms, my feet, my belly, then sting once, then twice, then again, then gentle again, soft. I see nothing, imagine you standing above me, wish for your cock now, just to see it, if nothing else, just to lick you, taste you, dig my fingernails into your cheeks, my slick fingers then carefully opening you, excavating, thrilling. I want to satisfy you, but cannot, here, you pushing me beyond you, beyond my need to satisfy you. You, pushing me deep into myself. This is what terrifies me the most.
You are near, not touching, warm, breathing, hot skin.
You, quiet, kneel at the foot of the bed and nuzzle your face into me. You lick. I gasp.
I clench, the vibrations intoxicating, my clit tender and throbbing now just from your breath so close. You lick me again, and I moan, pull at the restraints, and feel near tears now, your hand now not gentle. A sting, then just heat, wet. You pet my blazing skin once more.
This could go on for days, I know, this torturous desire for more. More pain, more kisses, more licks. I want you to fuck me, but I do not want this to end. Not really.
But you are rougher now, the stings becoming regular across my legs, my belly, my breasts, and there seems no end. You have lit the jasmine candles–the room may be dark now–or is it incense? No, I think it is the candle, the one on the windowsill, the one in the blue jar. Yes, oh yes, I try to imagine the room, want something to hold onto now. I could say one word, but I feel myself slip into this protected space, so far away, until I want to stay in this world of pleasure promised. Pleasure, if pleasure only when you stop. Pleasure, if more, much more.
Much more. Your fingers jolt me back close to you, then dive into me, remove the toys you have put there–balls and plugs and such–and return once more, one, two, more. I want more, you, your fingers everywhere, my ass, my nipples red, sore from your attention, your mouth, your cock lively and gliding quickly into my slick cunt, then back out, you panting as you torment me–you may come quickly, I can feel as my cunt grabs, wanting, now my climax, close, your cock once more, gliding in, out, I want more, deeper, want your mouth sucking hard upon my nipples now, and you are, you are. More. Yes.
I want you to untie me now. I want to put my arms around you and hold you deep inside of me while the come pumps out of you. You leave me tied, but do not pull out right away as you lie on top of me, breathless. I feel the ropes loosen, and I pull, now free, now my hands feeling the makings of a beard on you, your face close, though I still cannot see. And then I can barely see, even the candlelight blinding, my feet now free, too, as I pull you close with them, your belly soaked with the come still flowing from me while I kiss you, and you kiss me, here.
We are well beyond the ropes, now. We are in danger, I know.